


under rain gutters, monsoon

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2024448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certainly Aramis saw none of the potential disaster because his face was still turned to the sky, laughing, when the bucket of wash water hit the window casement, upended itself and spilled its contents down on top of him.</p>
<p>Now, in the moment after the splash, there is no noise at all. There is only the stunned silence of the rest of them as they take in the sight of Aramis, soaked to the skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under rain gutters, monsoon

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely breathtaken passed along a delicious prompt from Mackem about Aramis and a wet t-shirt contest. My brain went here. I can't be held responsible for my brain. 
> 
> Thank you to my gorgeous Ronnie, cheerleader extraordinaire. 
> 
> Title from Michael Ondaatje's "Cinnamon Peeler."

It’s not that none of them saw the ladder. They just, as so often is the case, didn’t think of the potential consequences. Possibly Athos did. Possibly he took in the entire scene, the grimy top floor windows it leant against, the rag draped over the top rung, abandoned for a moment while its master went for lunch, the large bucket of wash water whose handle was looped over the top of the rail. It’s possible Athos saw all of that and chose to treat the potential outcome of the distracted sparring as an object lesson in observation and situational awareness.

Or possibly he saw none of this and was as surprised as the others when Porthos’ flashing blade backed d’Artagnan into the edge of the ladder. Perhaps they all realized together that it was too late to grab at it as it fell. That didn’t stop d’Artagnan from trying, didn’t stop Porthos from snatching at the rails and wondering, curiously, why the ladder was so top-heavy. 

Certainly Aramis saw none of the potential disaster because his face was still turned to the sky, laughing, when the bucket of wash water hit the window casement, upended itself and spilled its contents down on top of him.

Now, in the moment after the splash, there is no noise at all. There is only the stunned silence of the rest of them as they take in the sight of Aramis, soaked to the skin. His startled gasp breaks the silence and at once Porthos can hear the pat-pat-pat of water dripping from the hem of Aramis’ shirt and the rushing of blood in his own ears. 

They’d been practicing in the courtyard. Stripped to their shirts and basking in the first warm day of Spring. Later Athos will comment on how lucky Aramis is to not have been wearing his leathers. For now, however, there is only the tissue-thin fabric clinging to his torso. It is pulling across his shoulders, dragging at his biceps, draping itself, lovingly, over his collarbone and down his chest. 

They can see the sparse hairs at his neckline and then, beneath the now transparent shirt, the thicker hair across his chest and down his belly. His skin is golden-dark under the shirt; his nipples darker. They are pebbled with the cold and standing in stark relief. This gauzy shadow play is somehow more indecent than nudity itself. With the fabric clinging to him like this, the swirls of hair they can see, the line where his muscles come together, even the drop of water that falls from his ear and disappears under his collar, have become a whispered filthy secret in their ears. 

This is a hint of how he would look sweat-slick, gasping beneath them. The way his chest is heaving now, startled by the cold water, is how he would breathe when kissed, or sucked, or breached. His shoulders are tense, neck tight, arms drawn up and away from his body. This is how Aramis would look if they told him not to move, if they held his wrists to the bed and let him writhe in a gorgeous struggle. Aramis’ mouth has fallen open, his eyes wide, and they lose themselves imagining all the other ways to drive him to make that face.

The spell is broken as Aramis shakes his arms out, gives a great whoop of laughter, and pulls the sopping shirt from his body. He wrings it out, water squeezing between his fingers and wetting the ground in front of him. He drapes the shirt over the table, leaving it to dry in the sun, and settles himself next to it. Like a pampered cat, he turns his face to the sun and sighs. Then, with an extravagant long-limbed stretch, he looks toward them, waving them away with his hands. “You fine gentlemen carry on; I believe I will sit and enjoy the show while I dry off a bit.” 

D'Artagnan’s shoulders ripple in a full-body shudder. He shakes his head as if to clear his mind as he turns to stare at Athos. D'Artagnan is, it seems, stuck. Athos' voice brings him out of his daze. “If you weren’t dropping your defense you never would have come this far across the yard. Go again."

Porthos feels a hand settle on his shoulder and turns to see Athos next to him. The look on Athos’s face is almost one of sympathy, of understanding and shared pain. When Athos opens his mouth to speak Porthos’ eyes widen slightly at the idea that there might be rare soothing words and compassion. 

“You have only yourself to blame.”

“Fuck off, Athos.”


End file.
